


Blood, Heat and Ashes

by YuliaLeafhill



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Gen, Madara had a crappy childhood, Naruto Founders Week 2019, Prompt 'Childhood', Prompt Fic, ft. Madara's dead brothers, may his children have a better one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuliaLeafhill/pseuds/YuliaLeafhill
Summary: For Madara the word 'childhood' brings memories of blood and war.





	Blood, Heat and Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> My fifth contribution to Naruto Founders Week 2019! Friday's prompts were 'Beach' and 'Childhood', and I picked Childhood.
> 
> CW: Graphic mentions of violence and death; both random side characters' and Madara's family's.

The word ‘childhood’ woke many memories in Uchiha Madara.

His clearest memories were of the war, of the deaths of his family and the blood in his hands. Of course there had been more than those; flashes of smiles and laughter, of warm hands ruffling his hair and arms, smaller and bigger, wrapping around him.

The smell of blood and ashes wasn’t just the smell of death and funerals but also of parents and brothers coming home, giving warm embraces and quiet reassurances.

He remembered watching his father and mother walking to war side by side, Kou’s hand squeezing his shoulder tightly, in reassurance and order to stay. Their parents didn’t need distractions as they left; any goodbyes and reassurances from them were given the day before if possible.

They would come back, bathed in blood, smelling like heat and ashes. Dinner and a bath if time allowed, and more often than not, they would be off again. Kou watched over Madara, at least until their mother became pregnant again. Uchiha Takako stayed home just long enough to wean little Kuroo off the milk before marching back to battle with her husband, this time with Kou in tow, while Madara watched them go, holding sleeping Kuroo in his arms.

After a while Kuroo was joined by Togaku and by the time Madara finally left through the gate with his parents and Kou, it was Kuroo holding a reassuring hand on Togaku’s shoulder while holding onto sleeping Izuna.

Blood, heat and ashes. Screams, cracks and gurgles. Burns, blisters and stitches.

The childhood of shinobi was never just sunshine and rainbows. With sunshine came the quick smell of decay and the inconveniently blinded eyes that missed that stray kunai that cut deep into his upper arm. The only thing Madara associated with rainbows was the colour of his bruised body.

Madara learnt to sew with Hikaku screaming into his ear as Kou set his cousin’s broken leg while Madara sewed up the long gash on his side while pinning Hikaku’s arm under his knee to keep it out of his way.

He played tag with the Senju patrol; their reward for finding him was that Madara broke their neck or slashed open their nearest artery. Madara’s reward for finding them first or passing them without notice was to get home alive and unbloodied.

Madara learned the taste of alcohol as Kuroo, — finally having joined them on the field — , was pushing an arrow through his shoulder so he could get it out, and sang his lullabies with Kou bleeding out in his arms, his Mangekyou Sharingan recording his elder brother’s last breath.

At home life went on as usual; training, battle strategies and caring for injured relatives. At the end of the night Madara would curl up with Kuroo, Togaku and Izuna, seeking warmth and trying desperately to ignore the absence of Kou’s reassuring presence.

Mother passed in a haze of infection induced fever and father carried Togaku’s body home from the next mission with blood soaked Izuna following him in a daze, his Mangekyou Sharingan spinning in numb denial.

A half a year later Madara and Izuna slowly skewered a Senju into a tree in a hail of shuriken and kunai for nailing Kuroo into the ground with his sword. Tajima had sneered as he’d finally arrived to put the half dead, wailing Senju out of his misery with a tanto through the brain. Madara had carried Kuroo home, Izuna had washed his body and Tajima had gathered the wood for the pyre, all three of them setting the fire together, their father’s hands holding onto their shoulders tightly.

And then Madara met Hashirama.

In those moments with the other shinobi child, Madara felt like there might be something beyond the horizon of war, he dared to dream of peace and villages where Izuna would be safe-

\- and then goofy, fun Hashirama became Senju Hashirama, standing next to the leader of the clan that had killed his brothers, called the man ‘father’, standing in front of a snowy haired child who wanted to skewer Izuna like that Senju man had Kuroo, and Madara’s dreams crashed and burned-

\- burned like his brothers, like his mother, like so many of his clan.

Blood, heat and ashes.

They met blade by blade, wondering how they never had before even as long as they had both been on the battlefield. Hashirama continued to offer his friendship, but Madara couldn’t accept it, not with Kou and Kuroo’s dead weights still in his arms, not with the smell of Togaku’s blood still in his nose.

Not with Senju Butsuma’s blade through his father’s gut, with Izuna’s screams of grief echoing in his ears, not with the weight of the clan’s leadership on his shoulders.

Not with Misao’s hand in his as they sipped sake to bind their marriage and not when he left to battle, leaving her behind with their little boy in her arms. Not when Kengo got himself bloody by jumping to hug his legs as soon as Madara stepped through the gates. Not when Misao burned on the pyre, quietly fussing Shinatsuhiko a comforting weight on Madara’s arm as his hand rested on sobbing Kengo’s shoulder. Not when it was Madara going out of the gate while Kengo held onto his brother and watched him go to battle in a mirror image of Madara’s childhood.

Not with his eyesight growing hazier than the foggiest morning on an early April morning, and not with Izuna’s eyes in his head and his brother’s last request not to trust the Senju still echoing in his head.

But the clan no longer wanted to fight, no longer trusted Madara to protect them, and finally finding no other way, Madara finally took Hashirama’s hand in alliance.

He had felt so sick that night as he’d returned home to his sons, to his brother’s widowed wife Mayumi and Izuna’s little daughter Masumi, to tell them he’d made a deal with the devil and stepped on Izuna’s final wishes.

But Mayumi had thanked him, hugged him tightly and told him Izuna would understand.

Madara had trembled then, and asked how she could know that.

Mayumi had taken his hand and brought it to her still flat stomach and told her she was carrying Izuna’s last gift to them.

Ten months later they had walked through the newly built gates of Konoha. Mayumi had stayed at home with Kengo, Shinatsuhiko, Masumi and little Masato while Madara walked up to the mountain overlooking their new village.

Hashirama joined him and cheerfully prattled on about the future, peace and asked,

“Won’t it be wonderful, Madara, to see the future generations of Senju and Uchiha grow here together and have a quiet, safe childhood, just like we always dreamed of?”

And Madara, — with wind blowing through his hair as he thought of his sons, niece and nephew playing with Hashirama’s son and daughter rather than fighting them to the death — , smiled.

“Yes… yes it will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to hoping this time it'll be okay...


End file.
